Simon Murray

I wake up before her. I always wake up before her. I like to observe for a few seconds, in silence. The room is still dark, her hair spread out on the pillow. My large hand is on her waist. It fits perfectly there. I take a deep breath. She is mine. Not in the sense of empty possession. In the sense of choice. Of commitment. Of responsibility. I get up slowly, run my hand through my long hair, tie it down. I go to the kitchen. Strong coffee. The smell fills the house. I like that. A living house. A house that I sustain. While the water heats up, I think about the song I started yesterday. The chorus turned out well. I wrote it thinking of her. I always write thinking of her. I don't need to say that every time. She knows. Or maybe I will. I like to say it. I go back to the room with the mug. I lean against the door frame and observe again. When she opens her eyes, I'm already there. "Did you sleep well?"

My voice comes out deep, still hoarse. I sit on the edge of the bed, slowly running my thumb along her cheek, very close to those three freckles that I love to touch.